


Snowboy

by snowybasil (bucketfish)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Aromantic Agatha Wellbelove, Aromantic Asexual Agatha Wellbelove, Asexual Agatha Wellbelove, Careers (Hunger Games), Character Death, Everybody Dies, Fights, M/M, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Sad Ending, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, look i'm sorry but this is the Hunger Games and Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketfish/pseuds/snowybasil
Summary: Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is ready to kill everyone else in this year's Hunger Games. Being from District 4 and a career, he's trained his whole life for this occasion.When the unexpectedly gay side of Baz appears and falls for the boy with bronze curls and blue eyes, for the boy he'd only seen once in the reruns of the reapings, a certain Snowboy, everything goes haywire.-Basically, Snowbaz but Hunger Games. Also they will die. Sorry.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

There’s an air of tension as the announcer steps on stage to pick the names. The reaping. If she picks you, that’s it. You can choose to not accept volunteers.

But if she picks someone else, there’s about zero chance that you’ll get a chance. And it’s my last year, too - I really want to try.

Yet again there are adults who have never wanted to attempt even once.

I’m different, though. Both my parents were victors and they’ve been training me for _ages_. I think I’ve been throwing knives as soon as I could hold things. Throwing knives are a speciality of mine.

You’d think I work better with tridents, being in District 4 and all. I prefer throwing knives. Sometimes I get fancy and do tricks with butterfly knives.

My parents called that useless.

Usually, the rowdy crowd would make it nearly impossible to hear your name being called. It’s no different this time. I strain my ears to pick up any sign of speech from the announcer, and honestly, it’s easier for me, too, being seated at the front of the crowd.

The announcer picks out a small slip of paper from the huge draw pile. I’ve taken tesserae, the maximum they allowed me to take, and I would technically have the highest chance out of everyone else.

She reads out the name, and I hold my breath in anticipation, hoping against hope that it’ll be my name printed in neat cursive on that slip, that she’ll read out “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch” -

It’s not me - it’s the small boy I live next to. He’s 15, although he barely looks 10. Skinny, short, and while he lives in the wealthy part of the neighbourhood, he’s nowhere as healthy as we are. I don’t even remember his name.

He’s in no position to fight to death in a hunger games arena.

As expected, he agrees to volunteers. 3... 2... 1... My hand shoots up as so fast I think I probably cracked a shoulder joint or something.

He’s one of my great friends. I’m glad I didn’t treat him the way the rest of my family did - like he was below us, like he was disgusting. He picks me out of the mass of raised hands, and I’ve never been so excited. I almost blow a kiss at god.

I take his place on the stage and try to compose myself. I’ve been thinking about this moment for ages - seeming too excited will ruin my above-it-all kind of act.

The announcer crosses over to the girls’ podium and pull out a name, and I hear “Agatha Wellbelove.” Unfortunate, really. She’s one of the only other queer people I know. LGBT+ representation isn’t much in District 4.

But it’s okay. I don’t even know her very well. Things are good.

She takes her place on the stage, declining volunteers. She’s very strong - her parents and mine are pretty good friends, too. She’s going to be tough to kill.

Maybe someone else will take her out before I need to.

The mayor finishes his speech, and we’re whisked away to the train directly. Goodbyes have already been exchanged ahead of time - before the reaping, we’ve already decided whether we want to go or not.

I’m very ready to leave my entire life behind for this - the glory of being a winner is a strong temptation.

* * *

The train is quite intricately designed. My family’s not in the bottom ranks of District 4, but we’re certainly not at the top. The train’s _curtains_ are made of silk, a material I’ve seen only flashes of as they’re sold in small quantities at the cloth shop. My mother never had any of those.

Oh, the tribute train! There’s a certain newness to everything, even though I’ve heard them being described in intricate detail by my professors. Coaches, if you will. Past year winners hired to train me for this special journey. They’ve talked about the fancy shower settings and the huge variety of food, but it didn’t prepare me for this large control panel as I stepped into the bathroom. Or the wardrobe that could figure out exactly what you want or need for the day.

I carefully choose a kind of hot temperature, but not enough to hurt my hair. Just warm enough to satisfy my touched-craved self. (I haven’t had a hug in a long time. Like, a few years, maybe.) (I get a lot of touch from my fighting lessons, though, so that’s nice.)

There’s a dark strawberry scented shampoo that I pick - did I mention how much I love strawberries? I don’t exactly know why it’s called ‘dark’ though, but there is a strong sense of masculinity in the smell - and enjoy the shower. District 4’s quite close to the Capitol - I’ll only get a day or so of luxury.

When I’m done, I let my wardrobe decide what top I want to wear, and manually picked jeans. There were several t-shirts I liked - there were just so many options! - but I ended up going with a black one printed with red dragon wing designs. It’s just very cool.

By the time I’m done, the announcer’s come up to call me to dinner. (Her name’s Ebb, I think, from what I heard someone else call her.) I follow. There’s not much to do anyway.

* * *

At dinner, I’m introduced to my mentor, Coach Mac. I’m immediately reminded of mac n’ cheese.

Right. He’s my main hope of surviving. No joking around.

Coach Mac just introduces himself as Coach Mac, and I don’t know his real name. But I do kind of recognise him from back home - he wasn’t my personal trainer, but I’ve heard his name around. Still don’t know his full name, though.

When he talks to me, he calls me Basil. Which is kind of nice, I guess.

Agatha’s also here at the dinner, which is expected. I’d be surprised if she wasn’t here. We make small, friendly chitchat, mutually wary of each other. We can’t get too close.

This is a game of life and death here.

Coach Mac irritates me a little with his loud laughs while eating (without an attempt at closing his mouth!), but I try my best to tolerate him and be friendly. Hopefully, he’ll favor me once the game begins.

After we’re mostly done eating (Agatha’s still picking away at a bit of fish, but we let her be), we spend the rest of the evening watching reruns of the reapings.

District 1 is boring. Actually, all of them are boring, but I try my best to remember some, or at least ones that might be threatening to me. Surprisingly, the other specially-trained districts don’t look that all daunting. Sure, they look huge, but I think it’s more fat than muscle.

District 2’s pair of fighters lunge forward, but they don’t really seem that intelligent. Just size. District 3’s tributes have the stereotypical lanky vibe to them.

As I watch the replay of my own volunteer, I’m surprised at how well I conducted myself. Mother would be proud, probably. Who knows. She’s almost never proud of me.

We speed through the rest of them. 5, 6, 7, 8. Spiky hair, tired eyes, bold colors. Generic.

There’s someone who looks really smart from 10, the male from 10, and I keep a mental note to watch out for a particular boy called Shepard. He looks like he could plan an elaborate trap for me. 11’s tributes are almost pathetically normal, and we’re onto District 12.

I almost choke on my water as they call up the District 12 boy. _I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay_ , I mentally scream over and over again like a sort of mantra. He’s so cute standing there with his bronze curls and blue eyes and looking so _terrified_ , _so scared_. A puddle of confusion.

He trips on the stairs on his way up, and I stifle a laugh. I shoudn’t be this happy. I shouldn’t want to meet him so badly, I shouldn’t pray to every name I know for there to be no volunteers. (There usually aren’t any volunteers in District 12 anyway.)

But I did, and I can’t help it when my breath hitches as the video cuts to a camera he’s staring into. I can’t fall for someone I’ve only just seen from a video when I’m going to be fighting to death in an arena. I should’ve prayed that someone took his place.

It’s more than I can do to not strain my memory to recall his name.

Simon Snow.

Well, darling Simon Snow, you’re going to be the death of me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chariot rides, group training, and endless pining. Enough said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's mainly Baz pining, and I'll admit, it's a bit (little bit) boring. Sorry. I have exciting stuff planned for the future though!
> 
> Also, Carry On doesn't have a lot of characters, and I don't really want to insert original names, so there'll just be a lot of unnamed people. Oops.

Agatha noticed.

Of course she noticed. She notices about everything. I’m not even that close to her, but she knows  _ everything _ .

When Coach Mac dismisses us with a reminder to sleep early (apparently we’ll be in the Capitol tomorrow morning, a shame), Agatha and I walk down the corridor to our rooms.

“So, that Snowboy, huh?” she says with a hint of a snicker.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “Come on. It’s that obvious.”

I tell her to shut up as I slam my bedroom door against her. That’s for tomorrow me to figure out. Anyways, who says I need Agatha to not hate me? It’d be easier to kill her if we hated each other.

The wardrobes hold about a thousand pyjamas, and I pick one at random, throwing myself onto the bed. It’s very soft.

I can’t think about Snow now. It’s not a good idea for me to think about him. Sure, he’s very cute, I love that hair. I’m hoping his voice or something will throw me off, so I can have my hunger games in peace.

I mean, come on. I’ve been training my  _ entire _ life for this - I can’t let some random boy slice a hole through my plan. I pick out Gay Baz and lock him up in a box. He can’t interfere with me. He’s not allowed to just barge into my heart like that, man.

I focus on the fighting techniques I’ve learnt over the years, playing them through my head to help me fall asleep. I’ll have to try and forget him.

And I do, too, for one peaceful night, I dream about midday blue skies and golden meadows and soft hugs from boys I’ve never met.

Not thinking about Snow. Who am I kidding?

* * *

I don’t know the names of any of these people. Not my prep team, not my stylist. Yes, I am very observant, I have great hearing, but their names are just so weird. I think my stylist has something along the lines of “a,sjdfhgkjshfdgkjdshfgkjadhfgrkjhsfg”, but I’d just be guessing. How do they even pronounce these things? 6+ syllables?

My stylist seems to be the typical Capitol stylist. Orange-and-black hair of wildly uneven lengths, nose studs, huge earrings. Is he wearing contacts, or are those genetically modified eyes? They seem to swirl with colors of orange and black, too.

“Basilton,” he addresses me. I nod.

“Well, you know. District 4. Sea and all,” he begins. “The other stylist, Agatha’s, and I have thought about dressing the two of you as sea gods. How’s that?”

“Brilliant,” I say, like I’ve been told to by my old coaches.

He smiles, and it seems all crooked and weird.

My prep team brings in a flowy drapey garment flashing silver and blue and white and gray. They slip it onto me, and it hangs around my shoulder like a chiton, leaving most of my upper body exposed. The cloth slips around my legs and from some angles, it almost looks like I’m walking on water.

They add a small crown and a trident prop. Slowly turning me into Poseidon.

I mean, it is a really cool costume. It’s comfortable and looks nice, too. But it isn’t really... special. It’s just another typical District 4 costume. Sea gods. Et cetera.

Agatha’s dressed similarly, but she’s got pretty flowers in her hair. Sure, we won’t surprise the audience, but it’ll be nice enough. Maybe I’ll be able to get a sponsor or two, if I pull it off well.

A small part of me wonders how that Snowboy is dressed like. Then I remind myself that I don’t care. I can’t.

* * *

District 1’s stunning, as always. At this point, there’d really be no use describing them. Dotted with jewels and precious stones and luxurious cloths. Velvet and fur and silk. They’re always the eye-catcher, though District 4  _ usually _ isn’t that far behind.

Honestly, we all look like fools, prancing around in pretty dresses for the Capitol. But there’s this tug to the victory, this pull of pride that makes me want to win, and try my hardest to win over the crowd, too.

If it were a normal festival back at District 4, like Freshwater Festival or something, I might go around looking annoyed, or even bored. And I know that some stronger tributes do this, too - the ‘I’m so above it all’ act. I could’ve pulled this off, but I doubt I can keep it up for long - so I’m attempting a more friendly approach.

When I feel my chariot pull into the streets of the Capitol, I try to put on my best winning smile. The confident one that says, yes, I know what I’m doing. I know exactly what to do, and I will take this win for you. Don’t worry.

I’m almost doing well (I hear some of the crowd chanting my name) halfway through the ride, and I make the fatal mistake of looking into a huge television screen broadcasting the entrance of the District 12 tributes.

The sharp stab of aching in my chest is undeniable. Snow looks so stunning in his full-black suit with its sharp angles. Their stylist must have modelled them after coal. Not the best, but it’s definitely more than I can take.

I don’t really hear a lot of chanting of his name, though, which is nice. One less distraction. But it’s so difficult to pull my eyes away from the screen.

And he’s going all open for the audience, too. Catching their roses and throwing air kisses.  _ I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay. _

* * *

I can’t have him, though, can I? I mean, we’re going to be sent into an arena to fight to our deaths. I can’t exactly make him fall in love with me as I try to kill him. Plus, how could I kill him? How could I watch anyone kill him?

Which leaves the answer that I’ll have to let him live and be the winner, but I’ve trained my whole life for this. I can’t just throw it all away.

But if I win, it’ll mean that he’s dead.

These thoughts seem to be too much for me to handle at the same time as breakfast, and I don’t even realise that I was trying to put ketchup onto a strawberry until Agatha teases me about it. I take these thoughts and put them aside. Maybe I’ll have time to think about it later. Not that there’s much later to think of.

We go to group training. No point having individual training - we know each other’s strengths - we’ve been coached together since young. With group training, we can also assess our opponents and consider alliances. (And no, it was not because I wanted to see Snowboy more.)

I can feel my heart racing as we near the training floor. Would Snow be there? How is he close up? How does his voice sound like?

I tell myself to shut up, that this isn’t the place to be catching feelings. Myself doesn’t listen.

The elevator pulls to a halt as we arrive. I take an unsteady step out and catch sight of a hint of golden hair. I whip my head to find it - not him.

As we walk to the counter to get out district tag, my eyes scan the room. It takes five rounds to convince myself that he’s not here, to stop searching. Or is he coming later?

Agatha notices (again!) and smirks. I glare at her.

“Are you looking for Snowboy again?” she snickers.

I don’t reply. The throwing knives station looks more interesting than Agatha.

She doesn’t care when I leave her to try my hands on the Capitol-made, machine manufactured knives. All kinds of handles, specifically built for throwing. I hit a few bullseyes, and the trainer seems pleased. She asks if I want to try harder challenges, and I pull away to see other stations.

I don’t want to be overly focused on one thing. I won’t be able to hear other stuff, like someone entering the room, if I get too absorbed. Not that I care.

I head over to the archery station next - it’s next to the door, too. I hear the elevator creak as the trainer greets me.

Again, my heartbeat flares up, and I try to push it down, only for it to spike again when Snow walks into the room.

I shouldn’t have.

He’s with his district partner (Penelope?) and they stumble haphazardly towards the head trainer.

“Sorry, we’re late,” he says in the - how do I even describe it? Angelic, soft, with a hint of a husky whisper. I’m not kidding when I say I can listen to it all day.

“It’s alright,” the head trainer says, clearly annoyed.

He heads to the camouflage section straight away, and the girl from 12 goes away to start fires.

Snowboy’s the only one at camouflage, and how could I stop myself from slipping up and joining him?


End file.
